"Yes,--funny. But, I say, mon enfant, was this handsome M. de Beauchamp really an artist?"

"Bah! how do I know? He made pictures. Certainly, he made pictures."

Jean Marot laughed so heartily at this subtle distinction that he lost the mental note of her disinclination to gossip about her late neighbor,--a reluctance that is decidedly foreign to the French female character.

"Now, Monsieur Jean,"--when he had made up his mind,--"if you will let me manage the concierge," she went on, "it may save you fifty francs, don't you know? Very likely the term has been paid,--he will make you pay it again. I know Monsieur Benoit,--he'd rob you like saying a prayer."

"It is a novelty to be looked after by a female agent, anyhow," mused the young man, when she had disappeared on this mission. "If she picks up the fifty francs instead of that surly rascal Benoit I'm satisfied.

It is a quiet place, sure, and dog cheap. Now, I wonder what her game is, for women don't do all of these things for nothing."

Jean was of the great pessimistic school of Frenchmen who never give a woman credit for disinterestedness or honesty, but who regard them good-naturedly as inferior beings, amusing, weak, selfish creatures, placed on earth to gratify masculine vanity and pa.s.sion,--to be admired or pitied, as the case might be, but never trusted, and always fair game. The married Frenchman never trusts his wife or daughter alone with his best male friend. No young girl alone in the streets of Paris is free from insult, day or night; and such a girl in such a case would appeal to the honor of Frenchmen in vain.

Jean Marot would have never dreamed that Mlle. Fouchette had saved him from imprisonment. Even in his magnanimous moments he would have listened to the accusation that this girl had robbed him of his money and watch quite as readily as to the statement that she had already taken measures to insure the recovery of that personal property. Yet, while his estimate of woman was low, it did not prevent him from loving one whom he had believed another man's mistress; it did not now steel his heart against the sympathy of mutual isolation.

"All goes well!" cried Mlle. Fouchette, skipping into the room.

"All goes well, eh?" he repeated.

"Yes, Monsieur Jean. Think then! it is a bargain. Oh, yes, one hundred francs----"

"What?"

"I say one hundred francs saved! The semestre was paid and you get it less a term's rent, thus you save one hundred francs. Isn't that nice?

One can live two months on one hundred francs."

"Oh! oh! oh! not I," he laughingly exclaimed. "But I guess I'd better let you manage, little one; you have begun so well."

Her face almost flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled.

"And you shall have fifty of that hundred francs saved. It is only fair, pet.i.te," he hastily added, seeing the brightness extinguished by clouds.

But she turned abruptly towards the window. He mistook this gesture and said to himself, "She would like to have it all, I suppose. I'd better make a square bargain with her right here." Then aloud,--

"Mademoiselle Fouchette!"

"Yes, monsieur,"--coldly.

"What is your idea?"

"As to what, Monsieur Jean?"

"Well, say about our domestic affairs, if you will."

"Well, monsieur, very simply this: I will care for the place if you wish,--somebody must care for it----"

"Yes, that is evident, and I wish you to help me, if you will."

"Then I'll serve the breakfasts and any other meal you wish to pay for. In other words, if you prefer it in terms, I will be your housekeeper. I can cook, and I'm a good buyer and----"

"No doubt of that, mon enfant; but I am a poor man now, you know, and the pay----"

"Pay! And who has asked you to pay anything? Do you suppose--ah!

Monsieur Jean, you don't think me that!"

"But one can't be expected to work for nothing," protested the young man, humbly.

"Work? It would be pleasure. And then you would be paying for what we ate, wouldn't you? I have to make my coffee,--it would be just as easy for two. And you would be perfectly free to dine at the restaurant when you chose,--we'd be as free as we are now,--and I would not intrude----"

"Oh, I never thought of that!" he declared.

"Do not spoil my pleasure by suggesting money!" Her voice was growing low and the lips trembled a little, but only for a second or two, when she recovered her ordinary tone.

"As a rich man's son living in the Faubourg St. Honore you might have suspected that motive, but as a medical student cha.s.se, and deserted by his parents and with no prospects to speak of----"

His lugubrious smile checked her.

"Pardon! Monsieur Jean, I did not wish to remind you of your misfortunes. Let us put it on purely selfish grounds. I am poor. I am alone. I am lonely. I should at least earn my coffee and rolls. I would see you every day. My time would be pleasantly occupied. I will be a sister,--bonne camarade,--nothing more, nothing less----"

He had taken her hands impulsively, but her eyes were veiled by the heavy lashes.

"Voila! It is then understood?" she asked, venturing to look up into his face.

"Certes! But your terms are too generous,--and--and, you know the object of my heart, mademoiselle."

"Toujours! And I will help you attain that object if possible," she said, warmly, pressing his hand.

"You are too good, mademoiselle," he responded. "Next to one woman I think you are the best woman I ever knew!"

He took her in his strong arms and kissed her tenderly, though she struggled faintly.

"Enough! enough! You must not do that, monsieur! I do not like it.

Remember how I hate men, spoony men,--they disgust me! As a woman I can be nothing to you; as a friend I may be much. Save your caresses, monsieur, for the woman you love! You understand?"

"There! no offence, little one. Am I not your brother?" he asked, laughing.

She nervously readjusted her blonde hair before the little gla.s.s and did not reply. But it was evident that she was not very angry, for Mlle. Fouchette was explosive and went off at a rude touch.

At the same moment a terrible racket rose from the stairway,--the sound of a woman's voice and blows and the howling of a dog. Leaning over the banister the young couple saw a woman, short, broad, bareheaded, and angry, wielding a broom-handle. The pa.s.sage was rather narrow, so that more than half of the whacks at the dog were spent upon the wall and bal.u.s.trade, though the animal, lashed to the latter, yelped at every blow the same.

Now, in Paris a dog is a sort of a privileged animal, not quite sacred. Rome was saved by geese, pigeons are venerated in Venice. Dogs preserved Paris in the fearful day of the great siege by suffering themselves to be turned into soups, steaks, sausage, etc. Since which Paris has become the dog paradise, where all good dogs go when they die. They not only have the right of way everywhere, but the exclusive right of the sunny sidewalks in winter and shady side in summer. A Frenchman will beat his wife, or stab his mistress in the back, club his horses fiendishly, but he will never raise hand or foot against a dog.

From every landing came a burst of remonstrance and indignation.

Vituperative language peculiar to a neighborhood that has enjoyed the intimate society of two thousand years of acc.u.mulated human wisdom and intellectual greatness, and embellished and decorated by the old masters, rose and fell upon the sinful dog-beater, with the effect of increasing the blows.

Suddenly three persons sprang to the rescue, two from below and one from above. The last was a woman and the owner of the dog.

"Mon Dieu! My dear little Tu-tu!" she screamed.

And with a howl of wrath that drowned the piercing voice of poor little Tu-tu she precipitated herself upon the enemy.